


you've had your chance and folded

by brandyalexanders



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Light Dom/sub, M/M, Power Dynamics, Power Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-26
Updated: 2017-06-26
Packaged: 2018-11-19 04:55:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11306103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brandyalexanders/pseuds/brandyalexanders
Summary: "Do you yield, ranger?"





	you've had your chance and folded

**Author's Note:**

> uhh this isn't that gross but it's kinda gross. god i haven't written anything in forever.. love these boys though and this wouldn't leave my head  
> ambiguous time period? i couldn't decide so. pick your own

The backs of Aragorn’s hands get trapped against the door, fingers splayed wide open, Legolas’ own in between the spaces they create. His nose falls against the skin of Aragorn’s cheek, leaving open-mouthed kisses against the places his lips touch. He notes with some satisfaction that Aragorn shifts against his thigh, the one he’d shoved between the ranger’s legs when they first began this game and the elf had gained the upper hand. Reluctantly he pulls his face away a fraction, still perfectly able to feel Aragorn’s hot, near-panting breath. 

“Do you yield, ranger?” he murmurs forcefully, removing his left hand to rest it on Aragorn’s chest. His brown eyes raise up to meet grey ones, posing the challenge he knows Aragorn wants and even needs. He grinds his thigh up assertively, kisses his companion’s neck, bruising and rough rather than needful. 

And Aragorn, for his part, seems to melt into the attention. He exhales when Legolas nips. Neck tilting sideways to let the elf continue, there’s a moment where Legolas thinks he really will yield; give up his control and let Legolas unwind him in unplanned ways. But a big, harshly worn hand travels to Legolas’ jaw, fingers cupping it gently for all the rough edges. They pause there for a moment before Aragorn moves his whole arm, fingers trailing Legolas’ throat and shoulder and finally clutching his right wrist. He regains his posture, regal, commanding, tilting his head down so that Legolas feels much smaller under his gaze. They’re still close enough to be kissing when Aragorn says, “And why should I yield to one who does not have the foresight to properly subdue his captive?” 

Legolas can hear the grin in his voice, the tone that just borders on mocking. He struggles a bit but in the end allows Aragorn to capture both of his wrists. The ranger attempts to push Legolas back, free himself from between his lover and the door. On this, Legolas remains stubborn. He leans his full weight on Aragorn and presses especially hard with his thigh, earning a hip roll and an intake of air. “My captive seemed quite happy where he was until pressed on the matter.”

“You should never have given me the option,” Aragorn chides. His grip on Legolas tightens. It’s only a matter of time before he breaks the hold, but even as he squirms to get away, his groin still meets the clothed thigh that has it trapped more often and more lustfully than strictly necessary. Legolas grins at this. 

“You are far too enticing not to touch.” 

Head cocked to the side, Aragorn darts forwards, matching their lips up in an aggressive kiss that seeks to upset his prince’s balance. And Legolas wavers, Aragorn’s rugged strength forcing him to drop his knee if he wants to find leverage to keep his prisoner caught. Their hips come together, more equally placed now, and Aragorn shoves his hips forward to show his interest and his control. Legolas relaxes and chases the feeling. The ranger takes this opportunity to force Legolas forwards, freeing himself at last. He advances on the other like a predatory warg, the dim firelight catching in his eyes as he backs his charge up until the backs of the knees hit the bed. Legolas turns his gaze away to find an escape. If he clambers backwards over the bed...

“And _you_ have gotten soft,” Aragorn growls, his hands claiming Legolas’ lithe waist and ruining his plot. “Must I show you how to restrain the right way?” 

Brushing his fingers underneath Legolas’ tunic, he gives a quick lift and tugs it off to bare the elf’s bright skin. It may be cold outside but the heat of their embrace and the fire curled in Legolas’ stomach makes it impossible for him to tell. Aragorn is too impatient, perhaps, to stop the other from undressing him the same way; a quick pause in their play while they admire each other, a gentle kiss and the soft roaming of fingertips. Legolas enjoys this but it is not their purpose. He gets a hand on Aragorn’s belt and, moving quickly, handles the ranger down onto the bed on his back and lands on top of him. 

His fingers hold Aragorn’s dark hair against the mattress, twisting in the unkempt waves and pulling, making his subordinate wince and arch. The furrow of his brows smooths out when Legolas palms his erection, mouth falling slack as he’s touched over his leggings. When he tries to meet the touch, Legolas pulls his hand away, leaning down to give his exposed neck a bite of warning. “How will you show me if you are caught?” he says, and sits up, rocking himself slowly against the place that Aragorn desperately needs friction. 

The man reaches out, fingers curled weakly around Legolas’ elbow. “You will not hold me long. I fully intend on taking you tonight, fair one.” 

Legolas shivers and hopes it isn’t tangible. But they’re so close together, bodies meeting in the most sensitive places, and Aragorn is likely tracking every move that Legolas makes. He wonders idly how long it will be before one of them stops playing and starts begging. Soon, he hopes, but he is not yet ready to give up pretense. 

“I rather liked the idea of having you,” Legolas informs him. “Shall I take you on your back, like this?” His nails travel down Aragorn’s stomach, leaving deceptively pretty pink lines against the muscle. Aragorn catches the back of the elf’s head, pulling him down to swipe his tongue over his lips and kiss him silent. Shifting his weight to his elbows, Legolas presses their bodies flatly together. His ranger licks his lips, his tongue, every corner of his mouth, coercing submission from his lover with the exploration. 

That won’t do. He clutches Aragorn’s bare shoulders and digs his nails in deeply, dragging them across the scarred skin. It's not enough to make him stop, Aragorn is much tougher than that, but it at least gets him to reign back. Legolas lifts his neck and makes himself move away. He peers through his eyelashes at Aragorn, taking stock of his breathing, his red, parted lips. The elf sits back on his heels again, raises his torso, grasps at Aragorn’s waistband. “What say you?” 

Sighing, Aragorn lifts first onto his forearms and then to Legolas’ sitting height. His nose meets Legolas’ jaw, traces lower until he can suck a bruise into his collarbone, closing with a bite mark that won’t last past the morning. The reddened skin, Legolas thinks, is still exciting to look at now, proof of their tryst, their passion. He holds Aragorn’s chin and defends his authority with another kiss. It’s much harder to rub against each other like this but they still try. Their coupling is a bit more frantic than before as desire heads, and Aragorn’s questing hands find Legolas’ leggings and dip beneath the waist. A sharp inhale steals Legolas’ breath, this first contact after minutes of indirect fumbling almost too much to handle. He scrabbles at Aragorn’s chest for purchase and his arms fall around the broad shoulders. And Aragorn doesn’t let up for a second, his hand working first on slow, deliberate pulls, then rushed and sloppy flicks that make Legolas gasp and arch and maybe, maybe, begin to surrender. 

Aragorn kisses him hard, and Legolas reciprocates as best he can, his focus split between Aragorn’s strokes and tasting the ranger’s tongue, its insistent heat. Soon he has only the former, Aragorn pulling back to whisper in his ear. “I say I would like to see you claimed,” he purrs, removing his hand and drawing one fingertip up the length of Legolas’ cock, torturously slow. 

His touch makes Legolas groan, his words make him buckle, and the elf kisses his lips one more time, helplessly. Then he reaches for Aragorn’s hand. He brings it to his mouth and swipes his tongue over two digits before replying, “Then claim me.”

Aragorn breaks their contact and uses both hands to send Legolas onto his back. Legolas rearranges his legs in a more comfortable position, hips raised and thighs spread just enough for Aragorn to lower his leggings and tug them off. The man follows suit and strips himself bare at last. He goes to retrieve their salve, and when he nestles into the hollow Legolas has created from him, the places their skin meets are searing. Legolas can feel his level, appreciative stare. 

“Do you yield?” he echoes Legolas from earlier, and Legolas does not reply. “Say it.”

“You win,” he says softly, and Aragorn presses two slick fingers against Legolas’ tight opening. But that is not quite what he wants to hear, Legolas knows. 

“ _Say_ it,” he urges again. 

Legolas stares up into stern grey eyes, searching. “Will you ever get around to _claiming_ , ranger?” He narrows his eyes and smiles when Aragorn pushes both fingers home, his breath stuck in his throat at the violent pace set immediately. As much as he is at Aragorn’s mercy, Aragorn is also at his. 

They press on quietly for awhile, just heavy breathing and sometimes a broken moan when Aragorn finds the place Legolas longs to be touched. But he never lingers there long. 

“Another,” Legolas demands.

Aragorn shakes his head. “Say please.”

The elf hates to give him the satisfaction, but he’s desperate to feel more, have more of _Aragorn_ , so he grits out his plea and gets rewarded with the stretch he craves. The ranger uses his fingers like he used his tongue, consuming, seeking to own every part of the elf stretched out beneath him. Legolas watches his handsome face set in determination. It is no wonder that even proud men hope to follow Aragorn, for this man is a natural leader, exuding a sort of dominance in all that he does. And Legolas will never say as much out loud, but he is happy to submit to such a wonderful strength as his dear ranger. 

Aragorn slows his ministrations and finally seeks out Legolas’ spot, rubbing his fingertips against it until Legolas’ legs shake and he twists his fingers in the sparse blanket. Then he asks again, “Do you yield?” 

“I cede to you,” Legolas gasps, almost against his will.

Aragorn kisses the crease of Legolas’ thigh, lips pressed against the skin when he says, “There is honor in surrender,” and pulling his fingers out, he adds, “my prince.” 

They look upon each other with matching smiles, Legolas’ chest lifting with effort while Aragorn rises to his knees. He positions himself carefully. The head of his cock comes to rest just outside, and Legolas nods his consent. “I am at your command,” he pants, “my king.” 

The title lights something inside of Aragorn. The first thrust is laborious but good, the sudden intrusion leaving both of them shuddering. When Aragorn pulls out most of the way, his head catches on Legolas’ rim. He leans down, hovering just above the elf, and as he finds his severe pace Legolas must snake his arms up and cling to his back. 

Their lips flutter uselessly against each other for a moment before Aragorn seals the kiss more firmly. He bucks into Legolas with a controlled sort of wildness, his teeth wandering over the flesh of Legolas’ throat and shoulder, biting to mark. Legolas just moans, allows his encompassing touch to own him, allowing him to claim just as promised. And the buildup of the evening makes it all the better, this game that Aragorn has won; though there are no losers, truly, just loving relent and adoring ownership. Legolas can’t help but cry out his appreciation as Aragorn ruts him. 

He scratches his ranger with sharp nails, raking them down the muscled back in the throes of this sweet feeling. “Breed me,” he insists in a near-sob, and Aragorn only nods and bites, holding his elf by the hips. 

Legolas comes with a sharp whine, spilling himself over their joined stomachs, and he falls back against the covers sated and racked with warm pleasure. Aragorn continues and Legolas allows it, the brisk pace that only seems to get harsher until the man howls and fills Legolas’ ravaged hole deeply, just as his prince had asked. When he pulls out they both sigh and the loss is odd to Legolas. The one sensation is quickly replaced by another, by Aragorn’s comforting presence snuggled against his side. He smiles and nestles closer. 

“Thank you,” says the ranger, resting his head on Legolas’ chest. The elf smiles and leafs through his hair, even messier now from their coupling. He likes this vulnerability, these open moments that they can share. 

“Take your rest,” he says. “Do not fight sleep when it comes.” 

Aragorn rests his palm chastely on Legolas’ hip, drawing their bodies flush and allowing Legolas to gather him in his arms. Their breathing slows and mixes, and Legolas thinks that if he were mortal, he would like to drift off in this moment. Aragorn gives his collar a sleepy kiss and says, “That, my dearest, is one force that I know I must yield to.”


End file.
